Obsession
by enigma81
Summary: Harley Quinn learns that sometimes,  ignorance is bliss.


_Obsession _

"Hope he won't be too angry with me**," **she spoke softly to herself, using a recycled phrase.

She sat, crumbled on the floor, her once new and frothy nightgown torn and stained with mud and water. Harley often found herself in the basement, or in an attic, wherever Mr. J decided to lock her in, with only the mangy and equally muddied hyenas to keep her company.

One of them had it's head nestled on her lap. She stroked the coarse fur absentmindedly, whilethe other hand felt the side of her body, which had just recently been kicked by a pointy black shoe with spats. A black and blue blemish would certainly nestle there.

She sighed and picked at some of the dirt that was caked on her night-gownJust an hour ago she had put it on with high hopes and had gleefully skipped into her Puddin's office, she thought that perhaps he would put his work aside tonight, and give her some "attention."

But, his work came first, just like it always did, and she had gotten in the way, as usual.

"You know, this is all your fault Harl" Said the small, familiar voice in her head.

"I know," She answered aloud, the hyenas looked at their "Mother" In confusion.

"Well, what are you sittin' around here for? Go and apologize, ya tramp!" thevoice commanded.

"Right away."

Dripping.Something wet and cold was dripping in the basement; it provided the only sound she heard, along with the soft panting of the hyenas. Harley carefully took the animals head in her arms, planted a dry kiss on it's cranium, and set the beast aside. She slowly rose, hoping that she wouldn't feel a sting or an ache while rising. To her relief, she felt nothing, aside from the pain on her knee, which had been scraped during the plunge, and the newly formed bruise on her side. She wandered up to the door, and doubtfully tried the door handle, to her surprise, it was unlocked.

"He didn't lock me out? He can't possibly be mad with me!" But her hope dwindled when she remembered that the door never had a lock.

Her feet dragged against the cold, concrete floor as she trudged back to a gray, paint stained door leading to the "office."

"Puddin**'**?" She poked her head in the room, biting her bottom lip, expecting to see an infuriated Joker glaring at her. But instead, she found a quiet one, bent over his desk in a deep yet fitful slumber. The Joker rarely slept, but when he did, he would be asleep for a very long time, all the while muttering and chuckling unconsciously.

All the pain, dismay, and annoyance left Harley as she beheld the sight, and the usual obedience and disillusionment bubbled forth. Slowly, she crept towards the slumbering murderer, pulled a chair next to him and sat there, staring at him with glazed and adoring eyes.

"No wonder why he was so angry... The poor thing was tired!" She thought, the phrase dripping with sickly sweet sugar, the kind that could give any health fanatic diabetes. She picked up a ratty old towel, that, just an hour ago, served as a weapon Joker used to strangle his "dearly beloved", anddraped it over the shoulders of her lover and tormenter.

She lightly tapped his back, and quietly walked away, up the twisted spiral staircase, towards her own bedroom (which had served as a dressing room for performers,when the theater was in it's prime). She passed the old backdrops;she passed the rooms where they kept the weapons and where the henchmen would sleep, once they found some of course, and finally... she passed by...

The room.

There was a reason why this theater was their main "home-base" and the reason why he made sure that this lair was never found It was all because of _the room_.

Harley sat across from the room, her back propped up against the opposite wall. The smell of moldy wallpaper and rotting wood filled the air.You could even hear the very workings of the place rottingand dying.

There was an old, purple cardboard paper that was taped onto the door that led to _the room_. "DO NOT ENTER," it read, simple, plain, and written in orange crayon.

Harley sighed, staring at the door with a dull sense of wonderment. Her troubled brain began to wander, thinking about her favorite subject. "It seems like only yesterday I was asking him about his childhood,"she mumbled, dreamily. She was living in the past again. She always found herself traveling there when her dearest Puddin'punished her. He was so much different back then. Sure, he was the same psychopathic clown, but he seemed like he actually... Cared.

Harley slammed her head violently against the wall, and began pulling at the tails of her harlequin cap furiously. "He still does!! He still cares!! Don't you ever think that!" she screeched.

The insane part of her, Harley Quin, zealously declared that the Joker really did love her, and that they will live happily ever after. But the small, unsure, and confused bit of sanity that was left inside of her needed reassuring.

"He gave me roses when I fell out of the window, right?"

"Yes..."

"He didn't hit me that one time... He hit one of the goons instead, remember Harls?"

**"**He did, didn't he!"

"Remember the look on his mug when I hit that klutz over the head with the mallet?"

"Uh huh!"

"And don't forget last Christmas..."

"How could I? " She sighed.

"See, Harley Girl? He really does love you! He's just a little rough around the ol' edges."

She stood straight up and whirled around, like a little girl does when she receives her first Valentine's gift. She giggled wildly, her eyes never leaving the door.

"What are you waiting for Harley?" The voice said maliciously."Why don't you open it?"

Harley stopped, and put her hands over her mouth with fear. "NO! That's his secret..."

"You want to know his secrets, don't you? Go ahead... just take a quick peek..."

Normally, Harley would never, ever indulge her curiously twisted mind, but the pep talk she had received from herself had such a euphoric effect on her senses, that she abandoned all reason and took off her cap with one, swift movement, thrust her small hand into one of the tails of the hat, and pulled out a key.

**"**I didn't go into a life of crime for nothin'," she whispered sneakily. One can only observe that she had, perhaps consciously, perhaps unconsciously, prepared for this night. She knew all his secrets (or, at least, she thought she knew), except for this one.

Not for long.

She quietly unlocked the door, and put her gloved hand on the old, weather beaten door knob. She could feel sweat trickling down her forehead, making the face pain wet and smeary. She bit her lip, gripped the handle, and quickly opened the door.

"I have to know more about you, it's the only way... I must, I must see. I have to know what you know!" her voice cracked, her obsessive behavior at it's peak.

She turned on the light with a forceful swipe at the switch.

Harley was in a different world: A world of black, and grey. The smell of aged, oil filled this world. The world consisted of newspaper, which coated all of the walls. There was perfect stillness in the room. The world was devoid of animal life.

except,

_For a bat._

There was only one Bat, but it was everywhere. It lurked on the pages of the newspaper, it flew through the columns and the articles. The Bat was staring at her with millions of white, lifeless eyes: Judging her, taunting her.

Slowly, Harley sank to the floor, staring up at the Bats, yes, even on the ceiling. She felt paper earth underneath her; there was the bat as well. Slamming her fists on the floor, she looked about in a shocked expression, nothing could escape her lips. Finally, a single word squeaked out.

"Batman."

There was no time for tears, because a shadow fell on her form. Whirling around quickly, her blue eyes met dark green, bloodshot ones.

"Hand caught in the cookie jar, eh?" The green eyes glimmered. A smile, cruel and violent, erupted.

Harley couldn't say anything; she didn't want to; she wished she could forget the room.

And after that night's beating, she did.

It was always difficult to handle scissors with thick, armored gloves. However, if one was careful and persistent, you could manage.

Besides, he didn't have time to change his clothes, and he most certainly did not want to be caught by a certain Butler . His faithful friend had enough to worry about, and he didn't want him to start dialing the phone number to Arkham.

Whenever he finished gluing, he always asked himself why he did this.

"Memories," he thought. He wanted to be able to look at his past exploits and characters he had to deal with when he retired. He had other photo albums of other criminals. This was no different.

He let the newspaper clipping dry for a while, and he closed the album, and sat it on top of the others.

Nothing made the album consisting of Joker pictures different from the album of the Penguin pictures, or the album of Scarecrow.

Except, there was only one Penguin album, and there was only one Scarecrow album.

But there were twenty Joker albums.


End file.
